THE STORM
THE STORM
THE STORY OF
THE STORM
Yaela Orelowitz
from a walking party to a Jewish version of what it
would look like if the Zohan teamed up with Modern
Family on The Amazing Race.
LYING IN a hammock overlooking the
ocean, in a garden of a woman whose last name I do not
know, with all my belongings sprawled on the grass
soaking up the autumn sun and my bandaged knee glaring
at me begging the question: How on earth did I get here?
The detectives amongst you may piece together
these sips of diluted juice to gather that somehow
water and danger comprise this image’s backstory.
An image that to the unassuming eye looks serene
and characteristically expectable. What your eye
does not see is that this serenity in the hammock is
equivalent in luck to the homeless, phoneless,
passport and ID-less illegal foreign migrant that you
read about in the Sunday Times.
It all began on a whimsical adventure called Shvil
Yisrael, or the Israel National Trail, a sixty three day
walk from the northern-most point of Israel (Mount
Hermon) to the southern-most city of Eilat. I chose
to partake in this walk to culminate my year of living
in Israel, an embodied farewell letter of sorts.
Joining a group called Walk about Love seemed like
the perfect hippy-dippy way of making the journey
as blissful as possible. Walk about Love is an NGO
founded by Rea Pasternak, a typically gruff Israeli
with a heart as smooth as Black Cat peanut butter.
Eight years ago Rea started the NGO as a walking
party through the country where he eased the brunt
of carrying bags and food but supplying all those
needs on his massively overloaded but seemingly
content 4X4 truck. This year a family with nine
children who joined the trip changed the dynamic
“How long I
stood frozen
I will never
know, I was
unthinking
and my feet
started losing
sensation.”
As the illegal foreign migrant that I was with a
pittance of shekels to my name, I undertook the
great adventure as a true African warrior: With no
tent and certainly no hiking boots. For 31 days I
indulged in this image of a newfound me, sleeping in
hammocks, woken by the autumn sunlight, carefully
mending and soothing my blistered feet each night
after a day of walking approximately 20 kilometres.
I enjoyed the stares, of admiration no doubt, as the
Joburg Jewish Princess my brothers once labelled me
was slowly disappearing behind layers of mud and
colourful plasters.
Now, those detective eyes are probably starting to
flicker. Autumn + Israel + hammock… Yes, the
impending dragon of rain is rearing its head. And so
we arrive on Caesarea beach on the 31st day of the
walk. The weather forecast is blaming the desert, a
disdainful example of scapegoating one who lacks
the manpower to self-defend, a northerly windstorm
which may or may not bring with it some rainfall.
Only the Knesset can know.
Fear not, the African warrior hunts for a solution:
Roman ruins on the beach which form a perfect
tunnel for wind and rain protection, says she who
did not take geography for Matric. That night was
my turn to cook dinner for the group and a hero I
felt as the nine children returned for seconds and
thirds. Filled with exhausted pride I retreated to my
tunnel, tucked myself into my thin sleeping bag upon
the tunnel floor, said my goodnights to Tina
Continued on pg 28
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